


i've got soul but i'm not a soldier

by fredesrojo



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker redemption arc, Booker/Therapy otp, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, andy nicky n joe are really only mentions in the first chapter, but will eventually be making appearances, so will quynh bc she n booker have chaotic sibling energy and need redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredesrojo/pseuds/fredesrojo
Summary: - It fucking burns, hearing that they've so easily accepted Copley into the fold, when Booker's sentence is exile, is missing out on whatever years Andy has left. But then again, Copley hadn't necessarily betrayed them, just provided Booker the means to do so. -Booker drinks, gets a job, sort of just...ends up with a boyfriend, and finds his family again.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastian le Livre & James Copley, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/James Copley, Booker/Therapy - Relationship
Comments: 53
Kudos: 302





	1. if you can't hold on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DukeOfQueers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DukeOfQueers/gifts).



> SAD FRENCH BOI HOURS ARE HERE AND FUCK ARE THEY SAD
> 
> Nile is bound and determined to get everyone some therapy or So Help Her in everything I write lately so at this point I'm just going with it.
> 
> Booker will eventually get some happiness and a boyfriend, as a treat.
> 
> Title and chapter titles are taken from the lyrics to All These Things That I've Done by The Killers, which is peak Booker for me rn.

The laptop arrives mysteriously on his doorstep about a month after they part ways on the Thames. In fact, Booker very nearly breaks his neck tripping over the package on his doorstep, too focused on finding the nearest place that will sell him more alcohol entirely too early in the morning. He stops, blinks down at it, sees a crude cartoon of scribbled pyramids with a river winding past them. His brain stutters, finally pieces together Egypt-pyramids-river- _ Nile _ , and he abandons his mission to get roaring drunk before noon.

Inside the package, after he gingerly uses a knife to separate Nile's cheesy drawing from the rest of the carton and tack it up on the fridge, he finds a thick envelope, a tablet, a laptop, and a cell phone. The laptop has a sticky note on top stating  _ charge me _ , and he absently sorts through the packaging to find Nile already attached the correct adapter for European style outlets, and he plugs the laptop in to charge.

The envelope yields two letters, one sealed in a second envelope written in a vaguely familiar hand. The first letter is from Nile.

_ Hey Booker, _

_ All three devices are clean, and right now I'm one of only two people that know they exist. The other letter is from Copley. _

_ We've decided to hire him on as part of his penance -- he'll be helping us find missions and also helping keep our digital footprints clear. _

_ He's set up the laptop with accounts he said he'd provide for you in his letter, and once the laptop is charged I want you to send me an email so we can talk face to face, at least over video. _

_ When you're ready, he's also going to be setting up missions for you. Situations where you can help people. Regardless of what you think, I'm not going to let you spend the next however many years before Joe gets over himself sitting alone with no purpose. _

_ Stay safe, and I'll talk to you soon. _

_ -Nile _

_ P.S. Andy says hello, and to get better taste in vodka. _

He reads the letter over a few times, eyes blurring with tears, and then scrambles to boot up the computer while he uses a pocket knife to slice the envelope holding Copley's letter open.

(It fucking  _ burns _ , hearing that they've so easily accepted Copley into the fold, when Booker's sentence is exile, is missing out on whatever years Andy has left. But then again, Copley hadn't necessarily betrayed them, just provided Booker the means to do so. Fuck, he wants to drink.)

_ Monseiur Le Livre, _

_ I apologise for taking so long to get these devices and information to you -- I have been working with Miss Freeman somewhat unbeknownst to the other members of your group to set this up, but it took me more time than I wanted to find a way to establish secure communications for you. _

_ I also feel I owe you another apology. You came to me looking for a way out, and I'll admit freely that I got caught up in the magic and allure of your condition. I didn't consider the human element of things until Merrick's treatment and intentions for you and your comrades became more clear. I should have vetted him more thoroughly, and for my part in causing your exile I beg forgiveness, even if I don't deserve it. _

_ Miss Freeman tells me you also lost your family, a long time ago. While I don't pretend to understand what centuries of grief may do to a man, I do offer an ear to listen, if you so desire. Losing my wife may have made me lose touch with what really matters for a while, but I should hope my work with your companions and maybe eventually you will help to even the cosmic scales in that respect. _

_ The computer provided has had the necessary security arrangements configured, and will only be able to be contacted by the account Miss Freeman uses. The tablet is intended for more daily use for you, and I took the liberty of loading a few books per Miss Freeman's request. You may read them or not, the choice is yours. There is also an account should you wish to procure more books to read. _

_ The phone has three numbers saved -- the first an emergency burner phone Miss Freeman will keep with her at all times, no questions asked if you call for aid. The second number is for her current phone, calls, text messages, and email included. The third number is my own and comes with the simple request that you reach out to me if you feel the need, no matter what time.  _

_ Please use the enclosed information to log in and set up any necessary profiles. If you ever have need of anything, I am but a phone call away. _

_ Yours, _

_ James Copley _

Booker stares dully at the page before him, heart aching with the knowledge that Nile had put herself out on a limb with their --  _ hers now _ , his brain whispers darkly,  _ the rest of them don't want you _ \-- family just to organize this for him. He feels the guilt pulling at him like a literal ache in his chest, like there's something  _ missing _ there, and leaves to find whatever the cheapest liquor there is, seeking to drown himself in alcohol until everything stops hurting so acutely.

Most of the rest of the day passes in a drunken haze, the power light on the laptop blinking innocently at him from the coffee table as he lays sprawled on the couch. He drowns the guilt away with bottles of truly shitty vodka, then abruptly remembers Andy's message and spends the next hour throwing up into the toilet. 

Eventually, his stomach reminds him that dying of starvation  _ really fucking sucks _ , so he picks himself up enough to stumble to the local patisserie, buying up their end of day stock with a pounding head and compromised balance. The girl at the counter clearly wants to say something but doesn't, and he sees her slip an extra  _ pain au chocolat _ into the pastry box before she hands it over. He pays, tips entirely too much money but can't bring himself to care, and stumbles back home to eat cold quiche tarts and gets croissant crumbs all over his fucking couch.

The  _ pain au chocolat _ tastes like ash in his mouth. He forces it down anyways.

The laptop is easy enough to set up, a much newer model than the one he'd carted with them from Sudan to Goussainville to the mine. He's not entirely sure where that one disappeared to.

He's not entirely sure if Andy hasn't already cleaned that place out. It would be no less than he deserved, after tainting the rock walls with the faked signal he'd created to mask his communication with Copley while Nile watched unaware.

(Or maybe she was aware, his mind supplies. She'd known enough about his betrayal to double back after Andy had set her free to go to her family, for some reason.

For all he knew, Nile had always suspected he was going to betray them.)

With shaky fingers, he enters the required information from Copley, sends a short email to the address Nile provided.

The device pings with an incoming reply about fifteen seconds later, and Booker spares half a thought to where they must be, that Nile would respond so quickly. He clicks the provided link, waits as the video chat window pops up and loads. Finally, Nile's face pops up on screen, lit oddly by the glow of her own screen. 

She smiles. "Booker, hey."

"Hello," he manages rather dully, suddenly wishes he'd at least taken some effort to not look like he does -- drunk, hungover, a pitiful representative of who he should be.

Her brows furrow. "You look…"

Booker scrapes the bottom of whatever well of emotional capacity he has left, forces a weak smile. "I've been better."

"Mmmh." She doesn't look particularly convinced, but also doesn't call him on it. He doesn't know if he's grateful or sad.

"This is all…" Booker sighs, scrapes a hand down his face. "This is too much. You shouldn't risk…" He shakes his head, swallows convulsively. "I don't want to cause you trouble."

Nile rolls her eyes, one corner of her mouth curling in a smirk. "And the Lord looked upon the field in which I grow my fucks, and found it was barren," she drones in a mocking voice, clearly unconcerned. " _ I _ didn't agree to a hundred years. And I need to learn from all of you. Otherwise we're doomed to repeat the same cycle."

Booker chokes out a laugh, blinking tears away frantically. "You...I don't know if there is much I can teach you," He eventually sniffles, shaking his head. "I don't know that I have had much of anything to contribute for a very long time."

She shrugs, briefly providing a view of her surroundings behind her, and... _ was that a rooftop?  _ Booker squints at the screen suspiciously. "...Are you on the roof?"

"It's not like I can die."

"Not funny."

Nile sighs. "It's the one place I can come for privacy. Nicky and Joe have a bad habit of assuming the entire house is communal property that I'm tryin' to break them out of. Andy's... somewhere." Her mouth twists in somewhat resigned frustration. "I think she's seeing someone, sort of. But I'm not sure."

"You could ask."

Her nose wrinkles. "Kinda don't want confirmation? I mean, like we know  _ where _ she is. Just not so much who she's with."

Booker sighs. "I suppose that's the best one can hope for, with Andy."

Nile snorts. "That's a generous assessment." She shrugs, glancing at something over her shoulder briefly before returning her gaze to him. "I'm working on getting her to understand the limits of mortality, for now. Baby steps." Her gaze sharpens. "So I had Copley set this stuff up, but some of this has to come at your pace, and under your own steam."

He nods numbly, gaze straying guiltily to the empty bottles littering the floor just out of sight. "I will try."

"That's all I can ask." She sighs again, a slightly garbled sound through the laptop speakers. "Copley's also keeping an eye out for small jobs, stuff that you should be able to do on your own. He won't send anything until you tell him you're ready. But I thought it might help. Not just...sitting there. Having a purpose." Her voice is infinitely soft, and if it were coming from any other person on the Earth right now, his temper would fray and snap, snarl and drive them away. Since it's Nile, Booker merely sighs and forces another twisted smile. 

"Gonna keep an eye on me, little boss? Make sure I'm still up to snuff?"

Nile very visibly rolls her eyes again, scoffing at the teasing tone to his reply. "Smartass." She sobers again, stares at him solemnly through the grainy webcam connection. "I want you to promise me something, okay?"

He gives a mock put-upon sigh, raising one eyebrow in inquiry. "What is your command, my queen?"

"I want you to -- look. If you're...if you're  _ sad _ , I want you to have someone to talk to. It doesn't have to be me, if you don't want. But Copley offered too."

"Yes, I saw his letter," Booker mumbles. "I…"

"Booker. You need to talk to  _ someone _ ."

"...Fine."

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. "You promise?"

"Yes, yes, I promise."

Nile chews her lip, staring at him through the screen. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

"I know."

"Just so we're clear."

Unbidden, he feels the ghost of an old grin rising, curling the corners of his mouth up. "Nile, I promise. I will contact you if I'm feeling sad."

"Or Copley."

"...Or Copley."

Relaxed now, she settles back with a grin. "Okay, good. So for right now, you clearly need sleep and a shower and some real food, but later this week I'll set something up so you can help me with my French. I'm not terrible, but most of what I remember is from high school and my teacher wasn't great."

Booker grumbles, affecting a very reluctant air, waits for the predictable bubble of laughter at his exaggerated pout. "I  _ suppose _ I could be persuaded to be a teacher. For a price."

Nile snorts. "I'll send you memes, and occasional funny pictures of Andy."

He raises an eyebrow.

"...And stupid pictures of Joe and Nicky."

"Deal." If he can't be with his family, maybe he can make do with whatever small snapshots Nile is able to procure.

He signs off of the chat with a slightly lighter heart than before, settles back into the couch with the tablet powered down but resting in his lap. On the table, the phone vibrates twice, signalling an incoming message.

The photo is taken from a sub-par angle really, but still manages to fit the absolutely ridiculous position Andy has contorted herself into, sound asleep, mouth wide open and clearly snoring.

His thumbs tap over the screen, a short buzz signalling his message has been sent.

_ Thanks, little sister. _

**i got u fam ;-P**

_ you text like a child _

**takes one to know one**

He laughs aloud as the next picture loads -- Nicky, sprawled upside down on the floor, tomato splattered in his hair, clearly surprised. Just out of focus in the shot is Joe, hands on his knees as he laughs.

Booker dozes off on the sofa, phone cradled to his chest, a new photo of his brothers saved as the lockscreen.


	2. i want a meaning from the back of my broken hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Football is watched, it is still Sad French Boi Hours, Booker gets some presents, as a treat.
> 
> Things will get somewhat worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SAD FRENCH BOI HOURS ARE STILL IN EFFECT CURFEW IS WHENEVER BOOKER GETS THERAPY
> 
> Copley ur hopeless disaster bi energy is showing.
> 
> Nile is a treasure and we adore her in this house.

Watching football isn't the same anymore, not without Joe's good-natured ribbing about how Booker's team's chance at the title this year is a pipe dream, so he just sort of... stops watching.

He doesn't even realize that the season has started until he overhears Joe swearing vehemently at the television from the video chat one afternoon when he's talking to Nile.

(This is just a normal call, one of the sort of bi-weekly French lessons Nile has organized.

He doesn't  _ always _ call her when he's sad, actually makes a point of not calling her too much as a rule. Booker dreads the day the others figure out she is in much closer contact with him than their very occasional letters imply, dreads having to watch as those who used to call him family potentially leave another behind.

Instead of risking Nile's discovery and potential banishment, he calls Copley. Copley has proven himself a surprisingly good listener, even if all Booker can manage sometimes is sitting there with the phone line open, staring at the bottles of alcohol sitting on his counter. 

When he calls, it's like clockwork. After a few minutes of silence and calm, Copley will tell him inane stories, recaps of short missions Nile and the team are running. Stupid shit really, in context, just observations Copley gathers from pulling and wiping any digital record of their presence. But it helps, hearing about the time Joe got so worked up waxing lyrical about Nicky's brilliant sniper shot that Andy gagged him with her own hoodie and refused to release him until he promised to shut up. Or the time Nile finally got the drop on Andy, beating her out in a paintball training course Nile had argued for as non-lethal training, what with Andy's mortality.)

Nile barely twists around from her perch on the roof of wherever the fuck safehouse they're in now, rolls her eyes. "Liverpool sucks this season, Joe's been kind of an asshole about it."

Booker blinks. "Oh. Right."

Nile's eyebrow shoots up, and he curses how smart, how observant she is. "Didn't you…"

"I'm, uh...not really, uh, watching." He shrugs, distinctly uncomfortable. "There's not a bar with good service around here anyways." The tablet charging on the coffee table looms large in his peripheral vision, and the lie coats his tongue with a bad taste.

She watches him intently for another moment but evidently chooses to drop it, hunching closer to the laptop again. "So go over the grammar thing again. It doesn't really make sense."

With a long-suffering sigh, Booker turns his mind back to the day's French lesson. "It's really not that complicated... alright, fine."

Fifteen minutes later, the lesson drifts to a natural stopping point, and a voice that sounds like Andy calls to Nile from somewhere vaguely off screen. She rolls her eyes and calls back a derisive answer in Russian, then glances back at him. "I don't know a whole lot about La Ligue but I could probably learn, if you wanted." 

Booker shakes his head. "It's alright. Really, I'm alright." He rolls his eyes, affecting a sarcastic grin to provoke her into laughing at him. "Besides, you've made your  _ opinion _ of men's football known."

Nile shrugs, affecting an innocent look. "All I said was Megan Rapinoe can get it."

"Mmhmm." When Andy's voice rings out again, slightly closer, he waves her away. "Go, go, I'll email you what I want you to work on for next time. And I might send a few books. Sometimes reading helps with absorbing the language."

Nile waves and quickly cuts the connection, texting him a rushed  **sry Andy was abt to climb on tha roof had to bail** .

Booker slowly shuts down the laptop and closes it, hooking it back onto the charger and sitting back with his tablet in hand. A quick search yields the current Ligue 1 table, and it cheers him slightly to see Paris Saint-Germain sitting in first, even after what has evidently only been a few weeks of games.

He sets the tablet down, stares at his phone. Slowly, he taps, closing out the text chat with Nile and opening another chat with Copley.

_ Question: what are your feelings on football? _

Copley's icon shifts to "Read" and then the three floating ellipses that denote a message in progress appear.

**What type of football are we talking about?**

_ There is only one correct answer, mon ami. Choose carefully. _

**Good to know. I have been known to follow a club or two...why?**

_ Oh, nothing...Nile just reminded me, league season just started here. I used to watch whatever matches were on with Joe, but… _

Copley's icon seems to be typing for what feels like an indeterminately long time, before his answer finally flashes on the screen.

**PSG v Lyon, next Saturday? I can come to Paris, I've business in the city anyways.**

_ That sounds good. Great, that sounds great. Yes. _

**Meet at your place? Or a bar?**

_ You ok with mine? Not many good bars around here, unfortunately. _

**Of course! I'll bring a few gifts by, packages from Nile I hadn't had a chance to put in the post yet.**

**I'll see you on Saturday.**

_ Saturday. Sounds great. See you then. _

He sits back on the couch, feeling much better about his split-second decision to message a man he only really knows through phone conversations and the disastrous meeting he'd orchestrated before everything went to shit, and then his gaze fixes on the empty stretch of wall across from the couch.

_ "Fuck!" _

He acquires a television -- slightly bigger and better quality flat screen than what they'd had in Charlie safehouse outside of Goussainville -- and spends the Friday evening before Copley's visit to town cursing at the instructions for a slightly less nice TV stand, but eventually prevails.

His apartment is...better than before -- clean, there's actually food in the fridge rather than spoiled milk and whatever condiments used to fill it, and his liquor stash has decreased in size and is disappearing much less quickly -- but it still doesn't quite look lived in. Booker runs a cursory eye over the living room and kitchen and sighs. 

"What the fuck am I doing?"

He gets no answer, of course, but asking had settled his nerves anyways. He pushes down the urge to drink until whatever this feeling is goes away, and instead texts Nile.

_ I invited Copley over to watch a match tomorrow. _

**great! now if only I could convince Nicky or Andy to watch a game with Joe. RIP to my eardrums**

**is he always this vulgar?**

_ usually, but it increases if he thinks they are playing poorly _

joesmash.mov

**they must be bad, im only half payin attention. readin the book u sent me**

_ which one? _

**figured I'd go ahead and start with the Little Prince**

_ that is a good one.  _

**I like it so far. u and cop goin to a bar?**

_ there really aren't any decent ones around here. I bought a TV, figured we can watch it here _

**u kno that means u gotta buy real food**

With a scowl, he stands to snap a picture of his (probably overfull) fridge. 

_ I already did, thank you very much _

**book u bought a vegetable im so proud of you**

_ was that sentence actually somewhat proper grammar _

**fuck off, u limp baguette motherfucker**

_ limp baguette? LIMP BAGUETTE _

**oh fuck**

_ Why would a baguette even BE limp? What does that even mean? _

**im workshoppin my insults, clearly that one needs work**

_ I'm offended _

**if u were truly offended u wouldn't be textin me bc ur nervous abt hangin wth cop**

_ I am not. _

sureJan.gif

**just sayin. u wouldn't have texted if u weren't nervous**

_ I'm not nervous. _

**u keep tellin urself that fam**

_ Good night, Nile. _

**night big bro. have fun on your date with Copley tmrw**

Two pictures in quick succession come through shortly after that -- the first, Nicky bodily carrying Joe away from the TV, Joe red-faced and clearly shouting, and the second a side-on shot of Andy's full-body eye roll. He likes both, ignores the chime of Nile trying to further goad him, and heads to bed rather than tempt himself with the alcohol on the counter.

Copley shows up about an hour before match start the next day, carrying two small packages and a larger shopping bag with a case of beer tucked under his free arm. Booker lets him in, determinedly ignoring that odd  _ feeling _ in his gut again as he carefully closes and locks the door behind them, turning around to find Copley has shed the light jacket he'd been wearing, and stops dead.

"... You're a Lyon supporter."

Copley's eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as he smiles, gesturing loosely to the white jersey adorning his torso. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

Booker closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens them again. "You are a fan of my favorite team's  _ biggest rival _ ."

His grin widens, if that were possible. (Something long buried in the back of Booker's mind registers absently that James Copley is really a startlingly attractive man when he smiles.) Copley folds his arms across his chest, head tilted slightly as he grins at him. "If you throw a fit about it you won't get your presents."

Booker scoffs. "I wouldn't throw a fit." (Joe was usually the more emotionally invested of the two of them, unless the French national team was involved.) He sniffs, forcing his feet to move again, walking over to the couch. "Just don't be surprised when you lose."

"We'll see about that," Copley challenges, and then gestures to the bag on the table. "But before all of that, I brought you a gift."

"You didn't have to --" Booker mumbles slowly, reaching into the plastic bag and withdrawing a navy blue and red jersey, blinks up at Copley. "You bought me a kit."

"You must support your team, no?"

Booker stares down at the jersey in his hands, thumbs rubbing over the screen printing, the thick ribbon capping the neckline. He sits back, unfolding it and holding it up to get a better look. "You bought me the  _ winter _ kit."

Copley shrugs. "It shall be cold soon, I figured why not?" His voice is more deliberately casual, almost  _ too _ casual, but Booker is lost in the feel of a genuine kit, long sleeves and all. 

He swallows, blinks, looks up to meet Copley's gaze solidly. "Well my arms thank you, the wind here is often chilly. This will be nice."

Copley nods absently, jerking his head towards the hall leading to Booker's bedroom. "Go on, go get changed. I'll get the laptop set up for the streaming link."

Booker hurriedly goes and changes shirts, dropping the drab grey thing he's previously been wearing on the laundry pile and yanking the jersey over his head, smoothing it down absently as he checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror to make sure his hair was still presentable. The jersey is well fitted and somehow  _ warm _ despite clearly sitting in a shopping bag for much of Copley's trip. That odd  _ feeling _ rises again, and Booker summarily ignores it in favor of striding back out to the living room, where Copley is bent over the TV, fiddling with a few wires. 

"This is...this is very nice, thank you." Booker gestures uselessly at his torso, smoothing the fabric habitually when Copley finally turns to look. "And Mbappé too, you chose well."

"I'm glad it fits well." Copley grins again, rolling his eyes slightly. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't get you the kit of a fellow Frenchman?" He nods at the bag and packages, turning back to crouch down in front of a slightly sleeker laptop he must have brought himself. "Go on and open the rest of your presents, Nile wants to know what you think of them."

Booker drops to the couch, grabs the bag to ensure he'd gotten everything from it, and stops again when his hand encounters nylon weave, pulling out a red scarf embossed with miniature PSG logos. With a small smile, he tucks it behind his neck, letting the scarf hang down his torso and pulls the smaller box over. 

Copley has the game stream loaded on the TV screen by the time he opens both boxes, and he's staring down at the garish beanie Nile had sent when the couch settles next to him, Copley sitting a somewhat careful distance away, but not too far. 

"What do you think?"

Booker smiles slightly, rubbing his thumbs over the US Women's national team logo embroidered on the front of the beanie, flicks the obnoxious red and white pom pom on top with his finger. "I think Nile has an interesting sense of humor."

"She really wanted the pride one but the team store was all sold out, so I had to go with her alternate," Copley offers, apologetic. He watches as Booker slides the hat on, carefully adjusting it over his ears. "The picture is from their most recent training session."

Booker nods, gaze falling to the other item Nile had sent, a framed photograph of herself, Andy, Nicky and Joe, all splattered with neon paint head to toe and smirking at the camera. Andy has an arm around Nile's shoulders, and she looks lighter and happier than he's seen in a very long time. Joe and Nicky have mysterious matching neon yellow paint smears on their cheeks and hands, and Booker very strongly suspects they had been caught making out more than once by the girls.

Copley leans forward, setting a gentle hand on the frame. "She told the others it was for her memory wall."

Booker nods, blinks the slight sting of tears away, and relaxes back on the couch abruptly, breaking the moment. "You ready to watch your team lose?"

"Who says my team will lose?"

"You're certainly not at the top of the league table…"

They fall into a comfortable rhythm of ribbing and trash talk, cold beers and the haphazard charcuterie Booker had assembled that morning between them, and the afternoon passes rather cheerfully.

Copley has a positively foul mouth when the mood strikes him, and seems to absolutely loathe the officials if his empassioned shouts at the calls are any indication. Booker finds himself sitting back and watching Copley more than the match as the afternoon goes on, only darting his gaze back to the game when Copley looks over at him.

It feels... _ nice _ . It almost feels like he has some facsimile of a home, a family again. Not quite the same as before, puzzle piece edges not quite cut in the same pattern, but somehow he makes it fit, at least close enough.

He almost feels sad when the game finishes and Copley begins to pack his things. The odd feeling from before, still unidentifiable, swirls in his gut, and Booker finds himself at a loss for what to do, hovering uselessly as Copley efficiently disassembles the setup he'd created with the laptop and Booker's TV. 

"This was fun." ( _ Mon Dieu, of all the inane fucking things to say… _ )

Copley hums a laugh in agreement, carefully zipping the laptop into a leather case before casting about for the rest of his things, carefully sliding his coat back over broad shoulders. "It was, I enjoyed it." He hesitates, opens his phone to look at something. "Perhaps you would like to come by, watch another match some time?"

"I…" Booker blinks, shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

"I'll take a look at the league schedule, perhaps we can find a day when both of our teams are playing."

"That would be nice," Booker offers uselessly, cursing his unimaginative tongue in his mind. 

"Well, I should be going, need to get checked in to my hotel."

"Of course, of course." He gestures to the door awkwardly, swallowing back some other inane comment before his mouth runs off before his brain again. "I'll uh, walk you out?"

"Oh, that's not necessary."

"Please, I insist."

Copley chuckles and then shrugs, following Booker out of the apartment and then out of the small building lobby outside. On the sidewalk, they both stand there rather uselessly for a moment before Copley offers an awkward handshake at the exact moment that Booker's brain completely gives up it's faculties and goes in for a hug. They jerk to a stop, Copley's hand poking into the underside of his ribcage. Booker scrambles back, stuttering.

"Sorry, sorry, I--"

"Oh."

"Sorry, I, um…"

_ Idiot, fool, imbecile _ his mind screams, and then suddenly everything quiets as Copley gently but still firmly pulls him in for a hug. He freezes, hands hovering in midair by his side, until he relaxes enough to awkwardly raise his right arm to pat Copley's shoulder, cursing his foolish useless brain for failing at basic social niceties. After an indeterminate amount of time Copley steps back with a grasp on both of his shoulders and looks him over intently. Eventually he seems satisfied with whatever he sees, patting Booker's shoulders a few times before he disengages their closeness entirely. 

"Thank you for your gracious hospitality. I really enjoyed this. It was a nice break." His smile is still so gods-damned  _ attractive _ , but Booker viciously stomps that thought out with a guilty slither to his stomach. 

"Yes, I had a good time." He coughs, swallows, scratches the back of his head awkwardly, which sets the pom pom on Nile's  _ stupid _ hat bobbing, and immediately feels like an utter fool. "Well, have a safe trip. I'll, uh...I'll talk to you sometime."

His mind isn't even articulating in an understandable language now, just garbled screaming thoughts and no small amount of self loathing. Booker turns to head back inside, feels oddly nauseous and somehow  _ cold _ even though it's barely autumn in Paris and has been somewhat swelteringly hot of late anyways. He doesn't turn back to watch Copley leave, just trudges back into his lonely empty apartment with its sad, bare walls and probably too much alcohol. 

He musters enough energy to carefully hang the photograph from Nile on the wall near the front door, fingers tracing gently over the smiles on his brothers and sisters faces.

He goes to bed early, tosses and turns all night, and wakes the next morning feeling worse than he did before Copley came by.

Alone, Booker picks up a bottle of vodka and starts to drink.


	3. i'm so much older than i can take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse. 
> 
> (Read chapter notes at beginning before continuing, please).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING:
> 
> The first part of this chapter very explicitly mentions Booker dying multiple times (tw hanging, hypothermia), the deaths of his family (tw cancer), along with three mentions of Booker killing himself (tw jumping from a bridge, alcohol poisoning). If you want to skip ahead, search/find the ~~~ to navigate past that section.
> 
> More oblique references to suicide later in the chapter (one line from Booker to Copley) and Booker has a mild panic episode talking to Copley on the phone.

>

* * *

He really fucking hates the cold, has never been able to tolerate it. Cold feels like Russia, like dying over and over with a noose around his neck, like stumbling through the frozen countryside outside Moscow and dying over and over and over again, desperate to get back to his family.

(It had taken the other three several years to find him, back then. Travel was both easier and more difficult -- much less security overall, but traveling long distances took time and money.

He had already watched Amelie die of fever, by the time they found him. Jacques, his youngest, went next, in the year or so he spent half-heartedly learning from Andromache and Nicolo and Yusuf. He lashed out and drove them away for a time after that, stayed through Louis, killed in the same sweating sickness that took his young wife and Sebastien's unborn grandchild. Jean-Pierre lingered the longest -- twenty years past his first death at the end of a rope -- and his oldest died screaming at him, furious and pleading for his father to somehow pass his immortality, his healing on to his son so wasted away by cancer in the end.

After burying his last son in the same churchyard as the rest of his family, Sebastien Le Livre went to the Pont Charles Albert bridge in the Rhône-Alpes region and flung himself from the bridge, died alone in the ravine, and then picked himself up and went to find Andromache, Nicolo, and Yusuf.)

~~~

Booker doesn't read the books Nile asked Copley to load into his tablet library. In fact he's been rather pointedly ignoring them since he noticed what the titles were, noticed what the books were about.

He ignores them, keeps them boxed away in a shadowed corner of his mind, until one day a couple of weeks after Copley's visit, the guilt and fear and loathing all swirl up to be too much, and he drinks himself to death twice before sundown. 

He ruins the damned jersey Copley bought him, stains it in vomit and blood and alcohol, feels incredibly guilty about it, and spends the rest of the evening systematically pouring every ounce of alcohol in the apartment down the kitchen sink.

A harried internet search finds him a local laundromat, and he carries the stained and crusty shirt in, pleads with the poor confused shopkeep on the correct techniques to return the shirt to something resembling normal. She eventually guides him through the gentle soaking and stain treating process, lets him sit in the laundromat at two in the morning on a Tuesday as the shirt swirls through a gentle cycle in the wash. He nearly cries when it comes out of the wash looking as it did the day Copley brought it to him, gives the laundromat attendant a tight hug and profuse thanks, and leaves probably entirely too much money in payment.

He leaves the jersey to dry on a jury-rigged clothesline by the window in the kitchen, flops down on the couch, and drags his phone over from where it had been charging after his second death by alcohol poisoning. It beeps plaintively at him as it starts up, pinging with missed messages and one missed call from Nile. Booker swallows down the guilt, eats some bread and soft cheese and some apple slices as he skims back through what he'd missed.

**yo fam where u at?**

**book? dude u ok?**

**we have a thing goin on in Australia, I just wanted to tell you I rescheduled our French lesson thing for next week when I'm back**

**book, you're kinda scaring me**

The missed call indicator blinks innocently at him, but he deletes the voicemail without listening to it and clicks Nile's chat window open, thumbs hesitating above the phone screen.

_ Sorry I missed your messages. Wasn't feeling great the past few days. Forgot to charge the phone. _

**Sebastian whatever the fuck your middle name is Booker. I swear if you scare me like that again I don't care who I piss off, I'll be on the next damn flight to Paris**

_ It's Sebastien, actually.  _

**THAT IS NOT THE POINT SIR**

_ I'm sorry. I really did just forget to plug the phone in. _

The lie tastes a bit less like ash on the back of his tongue if it's written instead of spoken, but it still leaves a twisting in his gut and a bad taste in his mouth.

**you better be sorry**

_ I'll have Copley order me another charger for my bedroom, it only died because I have everything plugged in at my living room. _

**fine I guess ur forgiven if u promise to never do it again**

_ I won't. I promise. _

**good. u better.**

**anyways I gotta get some sleep we're goin to fckin Australia tmrw so gotta get my beauty sleep in before I gotta deal with dinner plate spiders n kangaroos n shit**

_ Dinner plate…...what exactly do you think is in Australia? _

**Many things that can kill me, based on what I've seen on reddit**

_ Reddit is not a reliable source of information _

**Dinner. Plate. Sized. Spiders.**

_ The bigger they are the less likely to kill you unawares _

**That is WAY less reassuring than I think you wanted it to be**

**why u textin me at 3 AM tho**

_ the phone yelled at me when it finally got charged _

**it should, you were mistreating it**

_ I beg humble forgiveness from our electronic brethren _

**smartass**

_ Only sometimes. Get some sleep, little sister _

**I will if u will**

_ I'll try. But you need your strength for spider fights _

**hate u**

_ Love you too. Message me when you get back, please _

**I'll send u pics of Andy fightin kangaroos**

_ you think she will? _

**have u MET Andy?**

_ fair _

**I thought so. Night, big bro. MAKE SURE U CHARGE UR PHONE SO I DON'T HAVE A FREAKOUT AGAIN PLS**

_ Yes ma'am _

He feels both better and worse after that conversation, but perseveres through the guilt and selects Copley's contact, waiting with bated breath as the line rings.

Eventually there is a click, and then Copley's low breathing over the line. "Booker?"

"Yeah."

"It's 3 in the morning. Is everything alright?"

His throat clicks when he swallows, and he grabs for the water glass he'd left on the table, swallows a few gulps, coughs. "I...um."

He hears sheets rustling, and then quiet footsteps. Copley waits patiently in his ear, lets him listen to the slow, calm cadence of his breathing, the muted sounds of him getting water.

His throat finally unsticks, words finding their way out. "I'm not...is there someone…" He sighs, frustrated. "I think I need help."

Copley hums. "Are you alright? Did something happen?"

Booker laughs weakly, sniffs away the burn of tears in his eyes, hunched over on the threadbare couch in his empty apartment. "I'm sad. I'm always cold. I...I miss Andromache and Nicolo and Yusuf but I feel like I shouldn't because I'm the one who fucked up, and I hate this fucking empty apartment in this stupid  _ arrondissement _ , and I really only felt okay when we were watching that stupid football game and I didn't even watch half of it."

The words, once they start, tumble past his lips like a stream, a river, guilt and sadness and loathing and loneliness all swirled up together inside him like a disease. He chokes on a sob, suddenly unable to see the floor between his feet as his eyes blur with tears. "I'm lonely and sad and I died twice today and I got vomit on the kit you bought me and the lady at the laundromat probably thought I was insane but she helped me clean it and I hate it here, I don't know why I came back to France," he says hysterically, tears hitching the words that bubble past his lips. "I just don't want to be  _ alone _ ."

Copley is silent for a long moment on the other end of the line, just quiet breathing and then the clicking of keys. His voice startles Booker into almost dropping the phone, coming through much louder than he had before. "Does Nile know?"

Booker shakes his head miserably, realizes Copley can't see him. "No. I lied, I told her I forgot to charge the phone."

"Alright. I'm sending you the details for a train ticket -- the train leaves in about fifty five minutes, and I'll meet you at the station in London."

"You don't--" Booker chokes on tears again, curses. "I don't want to cause trouble."

"They don't come here, it was part of our arrangement. I asked them to leave my house as a safe space of absolute last resort," Copley rebuts gently, the clicking of keys still ongoing in the background. "And to be honest, I don't give a fuck."

Booker laughs wetly. "You cursed."

"Mmm. You know very well my abilities in that arena," He mutters, typing and then making a low triumphant noise. "Go pack, just bring what you think you need and we can worry about the rest when you get here."

Booker nods numbly, mumbles in assent as he drags himself to his feet, looking around to find wherever he'd left his duffle bag last. "I...can you stay? On the phone?"

"Of course." There are more noises in the background of Copley's end of the call, shuffling and soft bangs, the jingle of keys, and Booker abruptly remembers that Copley lives almost two hours outside of the city. "I may have to swap you to Bluetooth when I get to the car, but I'll stay. Alright?"

"Okay." 

Copley stays with him through a harried five minutes of packing -- his kit and scarf, the picture and Nile's cartoon and the beanie are the most important items -- and the walk through moonlit Paris streets to the train station, through customs, and beyond that onto the train. Booker briefly worries that he hadn't charged the phone enough, that the call will drop, but Copley calmly talks him through finding the complimentary charging ports on the train, tells him stories of Nile and the others traveling to Brazil and Costa Rica last month.

Copley stays with him, in fact, until Booker can see him standing -- leaning, more like -- on the train platform in London, dark jacket and wrinkled jeans and house shoes with a strange line on his cheek that Booker realizes must be from having the phone pressed against his ear for so long. He perks up as soon as Booker disembarks from the train, moving forward through the early morning crowds to wrap Booker in a fierce and warm hug, one hand curled around the back of Booker's neck and the other smoothing up and down his spine, gentle and kind.

He sinks into it like he's drowning, his own hands clutching desperately at the edges of Copley's jacket, and his shoulders hitch once on a hiccuping sob. 

Copley keeps an arm around his shoulders as they walk through to where Copley had parked, and Booker collapses into the passenger seat like a puppet with its strings cut. He dozes vaguely as Copley drives the two hours back to his home, not really aware of anything around him on more than a surface level until the car stops, and he's confronted once again with the place where his betrayal truly went down.

"Come on, Sebastien. Everything will look a bit better with some sleep," Copley murmurs quietly, offering a stable arm to assist him in stumbling from the car. He swallows down guilt and indecision, follows the guiding hand into the home, chokes down thankfulness when Copley doesn't lead him up the circular stairs but rather down a hallway and to the left, to a darkened bedroom and a large bed with slightly mussed sheets. Copley seems to be talking to him, the words ringing dully in his ears, but he doesn't comprehend beyond submitting limply to having his bag taken, and then abruptly finds himself sitting on the bed as Copley unlaces his boots.

He unsticks his lips, tries. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, none of that. This is not your fault."

"I just…" Booker blinks at him, knows with sort of a detached awareness that he must look a mess, but can't bring himself to care. "I'm so cold."

"We can fix that," Copley murmurs gently, like he's talking to a spooked animal or a small child, and Booker sinks wholeheartedly into the comfort offered. 

Copley briefly disappears, comes back with flannel pants, a sweatshirt, thick socks, and a pile of blankets. Booker changes mechanically, sinks into the warmth of the shirt and realizes that Copley must have run them through the dryer to heat them. He lays back, blinking slowly, watching as Copley changes back into his own sleepwear and settles on the other side of the gigantic bed, leans over to make sure the blankets are arranged to his liking. 

"You'll stay?" The question is quiet and reveals probably more vulnerability than he normally likes, but he's  _ warm _ for the first time in so long and he's not alone and he doesn't know if he can handle it if Copley leaves.

"I'll be right here, Sebastien. Go to sleep, I promise I'll be here when you wake."

That night, he sleeps, and doesn't dream of Quynh for the first time in years.


	4. when i wake up i'm afraid somebody else might take my place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are somewhat better, but also somewhat worse.
> 
> Booker searches for his purpose, and decides to search for Quynh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Booker more obliquely references dying of alcohol poisoning and throwing himself from a bridge in this chapter. He is also not in a great head space, and spends a lot of time sacrificing his own worth in favor of others.
> 
> Usual warnings regarding anything about Quynh's drowning.
> 
> Very oblique reference to Copley's wife dying, and some of the symptoms of ALS.

He wakes hours later to the gentle glow of the bedside lamp on Copley's side of the bed, illuminating the man himself as he sits propped against the headboard, two laptops spread on the space around him and a tablet in his lap. He's wearing a comically large pair of headphones and black metal rimmed glasses. When he notices Booker's gaze, he taps something on the tablet and then removes the headphones to rest around his neck, smiles. "Good evening."

"Time is it?"

"Just after 7 PM."

Booker blinks, pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking around. "I slept that long?"

"You looked like you needed it, I didn't want to disturb you."

"You could have worked in your office," Booker protests, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. 

"You asked me to stay, and it was simple enough to set up in here." Copley shrugs, carefully removes his glasses to dangle from one ear. "The team is landing in Australia now, so they should be making contact in a few hours. I can cook something for you, if you like?"

"Oh, I can, um…" Booker swallows past the dryness in his mouth, grimaces. "I can go somewhere else, while you're on with them."

"I don't really see a point, I'm really only there to set up comms with Nile." He sets the tablet aside, clambers out of the bed and nods at a pile of clothing resting at the foot of bed. "I washed what was in your bag, although we really should get you some new clothes. Lot of knife and bullet holes in some of those."

Booker nods numbly, watches with a detached sort of interest as Copley disappears down the hallway, looks at the clothes.

Jeans, boxers, thick socks, a cable knit sweater and a blue Henley shirt, all folded neatly and stacked atop a pair of boots that look nearly identical to the battered and ruined pair discarded by the bedside. Slowly, he pulls the clothing on, a quiet sort of delight and happiness filling him at the fact that these clothes are  _ warm _ , that he doesn't feel cold here. It's comfortable.

(It almost feels like it could be  _ home _ .)

He's startled out of his contemplation of the floor between his feet when Copley comes back in holding a tray, offering a small smile when Booker looks up.

"It's not much, I'm afraid I haven't yet been to the grocer's this week, but you do need to eat something."

Booker accepts the tray and eats the pasta and canned sauce mechanically, mopping up the remnants in his bowl with a torn off piece of bread, and drinks the large glass of water Copley had provided with relish. Copley is engrossed in something on one of the laptops by the time he finishes, so Booker takes his bowl and utensils and decides to explore the house after he cleans up from the meal. 

The kitchen is easy enough to find if a bit bare, even accounting for a widowed bachelor living on his own. Booker gives the cabinets and pantry a cursory glance as he washes the bowl and utensils by hand (none of them ever really adapted to the novelty of an automated dishwashing machine, and at this point in his life it's more ingrained habit than anything else), frowns a bit at the general lack of even basic cooking or baking supplies. He resolves to make a list and accompany Copley to the grocer's, determined to be of some use if he's going to impose on Copley's hospitality like this. 

(If he can be useful then there is reason for him to stay, and maybe he will get some time to be not  _ alone _ before Copley wises up the way the others had and summarily sends him packing.)

He makes a basic list of what Nicky had always deemed essentials, scribbling things down in scrawled shorthand, poking his head into Copley's fridge and sighing at the predictably barren shelves. His socked feet make little noise on the wooden flooring as he continues to explore the house, eventually ending up back at Copley's bedroom. 

He looks up from the laptop when Booker pauses in the doorway, a gentle smile lighting up his whole face. "Feeling better?"

Booker shrugs. "I'm not cold."

"Very good." He glances at the clock, hums. "I'll be connecting with the team in about thirty minutes." He watches Booker carefully, clearly sorting through his words. "I thought you might like to sit in, if you wanted."

"I…" He does, rather desperately, wants to hear the voices of his  _ family _ again, but fears the potential anger and retribution he could bring upon Copley if they figure out he's there. 

"I can set it up so that they don't know you are here, Sebastien. I haven't told them, and I won't tell them until you wish it, even if you never do."

He chokes on gratitude, clears his throat, nods jerkily. "I...that would be nice, yes."

Copley nods. "Was the food alright?"

Booker gratefully takes the change of subject, huffs a quiet laugh. "It was food. Your kitchen is very minimal."

Copley winces, looks almost embarrassed for a moment, and then ducks his head. "My wife was normally the chef in the house, unfortunately."

Booker abruptly feels like an utter asshole, brain uselessly casting about for something,  _ anything _ to say that won't sound fucking inane, but Copley seems to shake himself out of the mood. 

"Maybe you can teach me some basics."

He offers a smile although it feels hollow, proffers the list he'd assembled. "I can try. It's the least I could do, for imposing on your hospitality."

"Not an imposition at all," Copley rebuts, gathering his laptops and chargers and tablet all into a haphazard pile in his arms. "Let me go get set up for the call, and perhaps you can do some online shopping for more wardrobe while we're talking of shopping lists."

(He almost balks, following Copley up the winding circular staircase, mind superimposing Andy's back, the look of utter betrayal on her face, the blood that wouldn't stop coming from her side. He breathes through it, forces himself to keep climbing.  _ It's no better than he deserves at this point _ , he thinks, already dreading the nightmares to come.)

Hearing Andy's voice again nearly wrecks him, sends tears to blur his eyes and chokes off a sob in his chest because he's too close to Copley's desk to risk making noise. He's vaguely aware of Copley trying and failing to keep a visible reaction from his face, hears Nile question if everything is alright, and Copley's weak lie about having a cricket match on in the background, of a bad play.

Booker draws a silent, shuddery breath, swipes the tears from his eyes and waves away Copley's concern, focusing determinedly on the tablet in his lap. He lets the voices of his team, his  _ family _ , wash over him in a vague wave, spends the entire meeting staring blindly through the metal and plastic casing in his hands.

When Copley finally signs off, Booker pushes to his feet, seeking the famed  _ wall _ Nile has mentioned briefly, tracing it back as far as it goes. 

"I haven't found as much, pre-dating you." Copley approaches him, hands tucked into his pockets. "I'm sorry, about earlier."

"You were not the one to betray them, there is nothing to apologise for," Booker manages dully, his focus intent on the section of the board Copley has dedicated to Andy, tracing some of the earlier things, myths and rumors pre-dating her and Quynh finding Nicky and Joe, finally settling on a photocopy of a tattered sheet written in Greek. "Do you have more research on the three of them? Did they mention Quynh to you?"

Copley's mouth twists, and he reaches up to carefully turn the board carrying Andy's information over, revealing a smaller collection of information on the back -- photocopies of what looks like multiple ship logs, a map of England's coastline, and sheets of paper covered in Nile's neat handwriting, seemingly torn from one of the sketchbooks Joe prefers. "There's not much, I'm afraid." At Booker's questioning look, he nods at the sheets in Nile's handwriting. "She contacted me about a week after everything in London, asked if I could help her do some research. This is what we've managed in the spare time she has."

Booker remembers the sometimes brutal training regimen Andy and the others had led him through in the first few years of his immortality with them, knows that Nile's free time for a project such as this is limited at best. "I'd like to work on this, if you don't mind."

"Of course, you're welcome to anything you need," Copley offers, gesturing to the books and technology littering his office. "Anything here is at your disposal, and if you need additional items we can see about procuring them." He hesitates, glances sidelong at Booker. "You asked me for help this morning."

He hums, nods.

"What kind of help do you want that to be?" Awkward, Copley hitches a hip against the edge of his desk, leans against it with his arms folded. 

"I…" He shrugs a bit helplessly. "I'm not sure, if we're being honest with each other."

Copley nods, seems to steel himself. "You said you died twice, yesterday."

Booker swallows uncomfortably, remembers the feeling of asphyxiating on his own vomit, alcohol, and probably more than a little blood. "...Yes."

Copley watches him, dark eyes and an expression he can't quite identify on his face. "Intentionally?"

He forces a quiet laugh, tries for irreverence but probably fails. "I haven't done anything with true intentions since I buried my son and jumped off a bridge. Everything after that was just existence, however miserable."

"Sebastien…" Copley's eyes widen at the bald-faced honestly, his expression flickering through seemingly many emotions before settling back into the one he can't identify.

"I don't need pity," He cautions, hands shaking by his sides. "I knew what I was getting into when my family died cursing me. I knew...I knew what I was doing, in the end. I just lost the plot of it all somewhere along the way."

That was perhaps the problem of it all -- whatever part of him that cared to live seemingly died in that damned hospital as Jean-Pierre screamed and cursed his name. Jumping from Pont Charles Albert, dragging himself from the ravine, finding Andy and the others...he was nothing to them, that was clear from the beginning. There had been the briefest spark of hope the first time they witnessed him flail out of a drowning dream from Quynh, but that hope died rapidly when it seemed he had no new information, no glimpse of landmark or location. He was simply another burden for Andromache to bear, a false brother to Nicolo and Yusuf. He'd been useless to his family forever, it seemed. The faces changed, but the betrayal and eventual rejection and abandonment stayed the same.

He sniffs, wipes the tears he hadn't even noticed from his cheeks, shrugs. "Whatever will help me find Quynh for them, that has to be enough."

Copley's jaw tightens. "Regardless of -- you don't owe them any more penance than I do."

"That is very kind of you to say, even if it is wrong." 

"I think I will agree to disagree, respectfully." Copley rebuts, arms folded across his chest again. "I also think that you could do with speaking to a therapist, but I will leave the ultimate decision to you." He shrugs, sighs. "I know something of self-destructive behavior, perhaps not to the level you have, but I can also try to understand, if you want."

Booker nods, swallows, stares at the map on the board for a moment longer. "Maybe that, to start."

"Alright."

Abruptly, he feels exhausted, practically swaying on his feet, and Copley sighs, carefully moves forward into his space. "Come on, you should get some sleep."

He follows numbly, finds himself changing mechanically into the clothes handed to him, settles under the pile of blankets again. 

Booker sleeps, and dreams of Quynh.

He's old hand at sleeping through a nightmare without thrashing, without waking the others, has been for years now, so Booker is reasonably certain that Copley has no idea he'd spent most of the previous night plagued by dreams from Quynh, drowning over and over again. He tries desperately to project thought to her, fumbling through languages in his mind,  _ I'm coming I will find you I will take you to Andromache _ running on repeat as he drowns, wakes, drowns, wakes.

He gives up on more restful sleep around 5 AM, slipping from the bed silently, finds the bathroom and stands under the steaming heat of the shower for entirely too long until the phantom cold of the ocean sinks away from his mind and he's sure he is  _ here _ and present, not chained in a metal tomb under the sea. Copley's kitchen yields bread and butter and the remnants of a jar of blackberry jam and he assembles a rudimentary toast, figures out the coffee maker and sits out in the rising sun in Copley's garden, writing everything he remembers from Quynh down. 

Copley surfaces around 6:30, doesn't seem particularly surprised that he's already awake, eats his own meagre breakfast of plain toast and coffee in silence in the garden as Booker reads over the ship logs. He finishes, brushes crumbs from his shirt and hands, stands up abruptly. "Off to the grocery, then find you clothes?"

"Sure."

"The others should be reaching back out later tonight, if the job goes well. Around 8, if they make the primary rendezvous, 9 if they don't."

Booker nods. "I'll be there."

"You don't have to."

"It's the only way I can. I owe them that much."

Copley's lips purse into a disapproving frown, but he says nothing in response, turning to walk back through to the kitchen. When he seems to be casting about for paper, Booker offers the list he'd assembled the night before. 

(The need to be useful has been a familiar companion for Sebastien over the years since dying in frozen Russia -- he went back to Amelie and the boys in a desperate attempt to ensure they still had someone to provide for them -- went to Andy and Nicky and Joe because at least he was new, knew some of the newest ways humanity invented to tear each other apart. He forged identities, tried to keep up with the exponential increases in technology as the world industrialized. His relative youth was his only way of being of use, in the end, and he'd led them all to their own deaths desperate to give them one chance to have a choice in whatever fucked up cosmic power made them spit in the face of death so many times. He'd fucked that up too, desperate to feel anything at all, and now he's alone and out in the cold all over again, this time by a weapon of his own making.)

Copley is silent through the grocery, finally seems to lose his patience in the car on the way to the second clothing store, as Booker had taken one look and summarily rejected the selection at the first by walking back out without a word. “If they can forgive me surely they can forgive you, Sebastien. This can’t be some eternal form of penance for you.”

Booker laughs hollowly, eyes fixed unseeing on the middle distance out the window as the English countryside speeds past. “Unfortunately I didn’t get a vote in that decision, mon ami.”

Copley makes a frustrated noise, enough of a reaction to draw Booker’s gaze away from the blurs of green and grey and blue out the window. “Do they know?”

“Know what?” He plays dumb, studies the lines and creases of his palms rather than meet Copley’s eye.

“Sebastien.” His voice is soft and tired, and Booker tries his hardest not to lean into the realization that Copley is angry  _ for _ him, and he shakes his head. “God save me from stubborn immortals. You don’t believe you can be loved, so you settle for being useful. You are more than what you can do, Sebastien. You are more than your dreams of Quynh, you are more than just the forger, the technician, the demolitions man.”

Booker blinks back tears, shakes his head. “No.”

“ _ Yes. _ " Abruptly, Copley signals and shifts the car over, pulling over on the side of some throughway in the middle of London, and turning to him with a fierce expression. "You fucked up. You owned that mistake, but you were punishing yourself decades before this, ever since you left your family in France."

And suddenly, he breaks.  _ "They left me! Everyone leaves!" _ Tears are streaming down his face, blurring his vision, and his chest hitches with hiccuping sobs. "I never  _ wanted _ this! I was trying to get home, I didn't  _ ask _ for this fucking eternity of limbo!" His breath stutters, hands rising to take through his hair roughly. "I died alone, over and over again in Russia, until I could get myself down, get myself out of that frozen hellhole, and I make it back to see my Amelie and the boys starving,  _ dying _ , all because I'd been labelled a fucking deserter. So I stayed, even when Andromache and the others warned me not to, I stayed, because I wouldn't doom my  _ family _ to a half-life because of some Gods-damned  _ destiny _ . And all I have to show for it is gravestones and another fucking family who don't want me."

Hands, warm and callused, grasp his own, gently extracting the punishing grip he has on his hair, bringing both down to rest against the center console between them. "You have spent so much of your life stewing in this grief and guilt, but this is not your penance."

"It's my fault, I brought you in, I couldn't handle being alone, I was the one looking for a way out and dragged the others into it," He mumbles hysterically, shaking his head. "I deserve it, I deserve knowing Andromache is going to die, that I'll never see her again, this is what I can do!"

Those same warm hands,  _ god why is he always so cold, why can't he warm up,  _ gently curl around his shoulder, the back of his neck, and Booker lets himself be turned to face Copley, face serious and calm, warm dark eyes watching with that same unidentifiable look from the night before. He breathes, shaky at first and gradually syncing up with the slow, calm rhythm of Copley's. 

Copley's mouth finally turns upwards briefly in a slight grin, and he squeezes the back of his neck gently. "You back with me?"

"Yeah."

"Feel better?"

Booker sniffs, shrugs. "I guess."

He nods, eyes flickering with that emotion again, and then suddenly Booker finds himself in the second hug he's gotten in weeks, feels the hard plastic of the console dig into his side but can't bring himself to care, because James Copley is warm and strong and isn't letting him drown his sorrows and failures in too much alcohol. He isn't alone.

Eventually James releases him, sits back in the driver's side seat, and stares steadily out the front windshield as Booker tries hopelessly to collect himself. "I want you to understand, I'm not going to stop telling you that you're worth more than you think. And if it comes to it, I'm not going to sit back and let the rest of them let you spiral on your own. Someone needs to be in your corner. I know Nile is trying, but maybe I can too." His words, said with such quiet conviction, slowly begin to fill the aching void that he's felt since that first lonely cold death at the end of a rope. "You'll get it back. All of it. We just need to find your purpose."

"I don't know what my purpose is."

"That's alright. You don't have to have all the answers now. We're going to figure it out."

Booker sits in silence the rest of the way to the store, processing through the tiny flame of hope that has taken root in his chest. 

James doesn't let him gravitate towards his normally utilitarian wardrobe choices, greys and blacks and olive drab greens, but rather finds shirts in colors he hasn't worn in years -- blues and brighter greens, one dusky purple shirt that reminds him of Joe so much it hurts but he puts it in the cart anyways -- in sweaters and Henley's and a few hoodies and long-sleeved shirts. He won't let Booker balk at cost, just keeps holding things up and dropping them in the cart if he receives an acknowledgement, hangs them back up if there is no reaction. Thick wool hiking socks, sturdily made and yet whisper soft, and a few beanies in assorted colors -- even though he loves the one Nile had bought, with its logo from her country and the silly pom pom that bobs ridiculously atop his head -- and a heavy black pea coat that James asks him to try on. Most of the pants he chooses are functional both for utility and warmth, with plenty of pockets and sturdy fabric, and finally James sits him down in the shoe section until they find two pairs of hiking boots and a more everyday pair of shoes.

He doesn't look at the total, just sinks into the warm feeling of the pea coat around his torso, sinks his hands into the pockets as they walk the purchases back out to the car. Being warm had always been a perfunctory wish before, in grabbing clothes wherever they could, some of more questionable quality than others, and the less to be said of the state of some of the safehouses the better. Warmth was an often missed companion, desire pushed to the back burner as they fought and died through whatever missions they could find. 

Booker stocks James' kitchen efficiently when they finally make it back, starts grating gruyere and slicing bread for a simple croque monseiur assembly, stacks mustard and ham and cheese into sandwiches as the roux for the bechamel heats in a saucepan on the stove. James watches him cook from the counter, both of them content to work in silence and merely exist in the same space for the time being.

James' eyes blink wide at the first bite, chewing slowly as if he's savoring the taste. He shakes his head, laughing quietly. "That pasta yesterday tastes like MRE's compared to this."

"I'm glad you like it."

James smiles, glances down at his plate. "Nadia used to cook, until it became too much coordination for her to manage in the end. I've always been a bit hopeless in the kitchen by comparison."

"We can fix that," Booker murmurs softly, reaches over to clasp James' hand to draw his attention, offers a smirk to draw him from his melancholy.

"Maybe this can be part of my purpose."

James blinks and then laughs, shaking his head. "You'd doom yourself to teaching an Englishman how to cook? We boil everything, you know."

"Somehow I think I'll survive it."

They work together in comfortable silence until 8, Booker scanning through the ship logs and all of Nile's handwritten notes while James waits to hear back from the team.

The team misses the first check in but Nile manages to send a coded message with the data files they were there for -- the last of the server stores left over from Merrick, James finally admits to him, gives him the mission reports from the other five he had found and the team had destroyed.

He sits, reads, and stews in guilt until James' laptop pings three times in the pre-arranged signal an hour and a half later, hears Nile and then Andy and then Nicky and finally Joe chime in, verifying that they're all safe by the sounds of their voices as Nile and James confirm that they've gotten everything, that no trace of Merrick's twisted work exists in the world anymore, finally breathes a bit easier. James confirms the next leg of travel details with Nile and then signs off, hands folded on the desk in front of him as he watches Booker.

"It's gone. All of it."

He nods.

"I magnet-wiped the servers in the building after I helped Nile get in," James offers quietly, gestures to the laptop he'd just closed. "Nile and the others just took out the last satellite backup they had, and I've got monitors on all of his competitors, just to make sure."

(Booker had followed Nicky and Joe back to the lab, once they figured out the elevator was a decoy, dumping trays of samples taken from Nicky and Joe into an incinerator.

Joe had taken one look at Mera Kozak, struggling to crawl away from them after what was clearly a punishing blow from Nile, and raised the gun in his hand, fired once with rage blazing in his eyes.

They had doused the room in chemicals and lit three Bunsen burners, running for the stairwell to continue down the building after confirming the lab had started to catch fire.)

"Good." He sits, breathes, processes the knowledge that the last bit of Steven Merrick's bloody legacy has been removed from the world. Finally one of the looming spectres that had haunted him since London now swirls away like dust on the wind.

Grateful, Booker looks up every possible meme he can find about Australia and sends them to Nile in an email.

Around 4 AM, his phone pings with a new message, and he smiles genuinely for what feels like the first time in days.

**:(((((((((((((((((( I haaaaaaaaaaaaate you so much**

_ safe travels, little sister _


	5. i need direction to perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quynh is baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Booker now has a Purpose and it is super effective.
> 
> This chapter can also be titled as Fitz Does Not Trust Google Translate. Any things in languages that are not English are in italics after the page break, in reference to James, Quynh, and Booker in the end of the chapter.

Searching for Quynh is a mission he sets himself, the first part of finding his purpose. James helps him set up all of the information on her disappearance on a table they drag from the kitchen, spreading everything out on the largest available surface he has. Some of it even ends up on the floor, the map pinned up on a whiteboard and quickly covered with little flag pins, scrawled notes on little pieces of paper.

He sleeps with a notepad by the bed, sits up after each dream, writes everything he can remember.

He still tries to comfort Quynh, in the midst of it all. Thinks  _ it's okay I'm coming we'll find you _ over and over as she drowns, wakes, drowns, wakes. 

Every possible scrap of detail -- the silvery flash of a fish swimming past her watery prison, the taste of the salt, how the metal of the iron maiden feels against her hands as she thrashes, beats with her hands and knees, drowns again.

James won't let him feel guilty about the interrupted sleep, just sits with him asking questions as he writes furiously, settles him back down with warm blankets from the dryer and cups of warm jasmine tea. This version of James confuses him at times, kind and warm and always checking in with him, always reminding him that he's worth more than just his dreams of Quynh.

Sometimes he even believes him.

Booker also does research into what exactly 500 years under the ocean will do to an iron coffin, trying to determine the best method of getting Quynh out. He reads of the recent (by comparison) raising of the  _ H.L. Hunley  _ back in 2000, an iron submarine built during the waning years of the American Confederacy, a ship that sank one of the Union ships blockading Charleston harbor but was lost in the attack and remained on the bottom of the harbor for 156 years. The descriptions of the concretion and rust covering the Hunley's iron do not fill him with confidence that Quynh's watery grave is in any better shape. But he hopes against the fear, researches marine salvage methods, works with James to come up with a list of everything they think they'll need to bring Quynh back to the surface.

(All four of them had diving certifications, before. It was something he set up and maintained every five years or so once human ingenuity developed enough that diving was mostly a safe endeavor. Had hoped, once upon a time, that getting this set up would make Andy happy, would help prompt them to renew the search for the woman who haunted his dreams every night. 

It didn't work, which hurt more than Booker likes to admit, but they used the diving certs to get in and out of certain situations unseen. At least they were partially useful, in the end.

Booker stopped making the other three renew their certs sometime in the early 2000s. He didn't see the point, anymore.)

Most of the depth charts ringing the English coastline in the likely areas where Quynh could have been dumped overboard seem to average out around 100 feet, but there are deeper sections dropping well past 200 feet that he desperately hopes to avoid, as the pressure tables at those depths would kill him in seconds rather than minutes if he dived that deep.

He and James argue once, about hiring a team to go with them. Booker refuses to risk Quynh to the scruples of men in this day and age, worries that no matter how thoroughly James is able to vet them, someone may still talk about the woman dragged from under the sea. He won't betray his family again, even if it means the only support he has is James.

James thankfully doesn't argue about being the one to go under the waves -- from a practical standpoint even with modern diving apparatus, Booker stands an exponentially higher chance of finding and freeing Quynh at any depth, as if he dies in the action he will merely regenerate seconds later. He clearly isn't happy about the idea of Booker possibly dying multiple times in the rescue attempt, but he accedes to the idea regardless.

It takes them a week, and it's one of Nile's dreams that finally give him the clues he needs to narrow down the location. James gives him a photocopy of a new page, messy scrawls in Nile's handwriting, and he finally figures it out.

(There's seemingly no rhyme or reason to  _ what _ they dream of each other, but he's pretty sure the dreams do differ between each of them, at least a little bit. His dreams of Quynh are always of the last glimpse of Andy she had, of the last taste of fresh air above water, and then endless drowning.)

Nile writes of hearing gulls screeching, of the creak of the wooden ship, and of seeing a flash of  _ bone white cliffs _ in the distance as the men lifted Quynh's coffin before it went overboard.

He swears, sweeps the table clear of the ship logs and his own scribbled observations, and pulls the map down to the table. "Fucking  _ Dover _ ."

"What?"

"She's in Dover. They fucking…" Booker throws the sheet down atop the map, circles the Strait of Dover in bright red pencil. 

James reads, blinks in honest surprise. "White cliffs."

"White  _ fucking _ cliffs," Booker snarls, casting about frantically for the bathymetric charts of the Strait. "Sometimes I hate these goddamn dreams."

"You never saw them?"

"No. I don't think we all have the same dreams." Booker grumbles, dragging out the bathymetric chart and looking at the points he'd already marked as likely from the other map. "None of it really makes any sense if we're being honest. The older ones dream of your first death until you meet, but you dream of whatever is happening to them, but not always. Sometimes Quynh gave me the last things she saw before she went under, but most of the time it was just water and death over and over again."

"That is…" James stares at him. "You've been dreaming that for  _ two hundred years?" _

"Two hundred and eight, actually."

"I fail to see how that's any better." James swipes a hand down his face resignedly, shakes his head. "If I never do anything else, I am going to make those other three understand  _ why _ you felt so miserable in the end that you saw death by experimentation as the easiest way out."

Booker blinks, swallows. "I…"

"If you say you deserved it I might actually hit you," James grumbles darkly, staring at the table blindly for a moment before he abruptly turns and goes to his computer. "I'm changing their next cover identities," he says, dropping into the chair heavily, one hand already reaching for his glasses.

Booker stares at the frustratingly attractive picture he presents for a moment before the non sequitur registers in his mind. "Wait, what?"

"I'm changing their cover identities, as punishment," James says, calm and matter-of-fact as his fingers type away at the keys.

"... _ Why?" _

"Because it makes me feel better. And because they let you experience death by proxy for two hundred and eight years and then acted like your plan was some glaring surprise."

"Um."

James glances back up at him over the rims of his glasses, smirks. "Shall I put Joe or Nicky in a marriage with Andy?"

He stares, thinks. "Er…Joe?" Then, as the thought occurs to him, he blurts out. "Don't punish Nile. She didn't have anything to do with this."

James looks back up at him and his gaze softens. "I won't, I promise you. I would never blame Nile for the sins of the others."

They work the rest of the afternoon in silence, James tapping away at his keyboard with a vengeance and Booker processing the feeling that someone  _ wants _ him,  _ cares about  _ him, letting it fill his chest with warmth as he plots search grids over the map.

(Nile texts him an incomprehensible string of emojis the next morning, then eventually develops more coherency.

**WIDBSJEH** **joe n Andy gotta play married couple on the next op I'm fckucin cryin**

_????? _

**idk why cop just sent us the cover identities and Joe's been pouting on the balcony for like the last five hours**

**Nicky's a linguistics prof, and I apparently get to play college kid on a gap year again**

**but Andy n Joe on their honeymoon dhwjdh**

_ Please send pictures _

_ Did he send rings _

**I HAVE TO GET THEM RINGS OSHDHEJ YOU'RE A GENIUS I LOVE YOU**

_ happy to help _

The pictures Nile sends of Joe aggressively pouting and Andy just staring blankly into the middle distance get printed out and pinned up on the board, and Booker sleeps that evening with the warm happy feeling of being  _ wanted _ in his chest again.)

* * *

He navigates the boat James rents to the start of the search grid he'd meticulously plotted out, holes himself up in the bridge with the old map of England and a series of nautical charts, all marked up with red pencil. 

It isn't, in hindsight, the best possible plan for Booker and James to be alone in this, the only two out here in the rolling sea, but he can't bring himself to trust another person with his (their) immortality. They set up on the correct heading for the first row of his search grid, and James already has the ROV submersible prepared and attached to the tow-along tether.

There are, based on the scraps of information Booker assembled, three highly probable points where Quynh could have been dumped. Many of the other ship's logs collected seemed to be the incorrect time frame at least according to Nile's notes -- clearly questioning Joe and Nicky but not Andy, as the notes detail how the two men had saved Andy from burning at the stake two days after Quynh was taken.

(There are other less probable sites, plotted on the map as yellow, gray, and then black flags. He has to triage in a situation like this -- for one, James can really only be out of contact range from the team for about a week at most, which severely limits his search windows. If this site yields nothing, they have enough time to check the second but not the third before James must report back.)

Based on ocean currents and where Andy and Quynh were when they were captured and roughly a thousand other variables he's had to figure, the first grid is just outside the Strait of Dover to the north, removed enough from the heavy boating lanes that he hopes the currents won't be too much of a hassle. 

They use the ROV for scans of the chalk seafloor, slowly moving up and down the grid-lines Booker plotted.

Late in the afternoon the second day, James makes a confused noise from where he sat monitoring the feed from the ROV. He checked that still against the scan profile from the side-along sonar, moves to mark a more precise location on the map. "Anchor here. I want to send the other 'bot down. Get a better idea of what I'm seeing." 

Booker slows the engine, waiting as James runs up to the bow to throw the release on the heavy anchor, then trades places with him to repeat the same procedure at the stern. Their second ROV, a sleeker model with a more precise camera, gets clipped into its tether and then lowered over the side of the boat. Booker sits on the deck to put on his drysuit, shivering a bit in the balmy autumn winds. He lets James check over his tanks and mask, sits in front of the laptop screen as the ROV steers to whatever anomaly James had noticed, squinting in the slight haze caused by the currents. Gasps, when the screen blurs briefly and then resolves into a metal tomb, slightly overgrown with sealife. As he watches, it shakes slightly against the seafloor, and a stream of bubbles rises from one end. 

"James."

"Did we find it?"

Booker throws himself from his perch, slings the oxygen tanks onto his back haphazardly, tries to find enough saliva in his suddenly bone dry mouth to spit in the mask. "It's her."

James watches the video feed and nods, turning back to him with excitement shining in his eyes. "You did it, Bastien."

"You helped."

"Group effort, then." James toggles the controls, steers the ROV closer, swings it in a wide circle around the iron maiden. "What do you think, to cut it?"

Booker hefts the industrial grade bolt cutters, questioning. "What are the chances I can get that open if the chains are off?"

James winces, shrugs. "Depends on a lot of things, how much rust has accumulated, and the concretion factor." He frowns at the screen. "I think we should use the winch."

"The decompression sickness would kill her."

"Sebastien, she's dying anyways. I think pulling it up and cutting her out up here may be our best option."

He curses. "Fuck." Checks the depth gauge on the ROV screen, curses louder. " _ Fuck!" _

James sighs. "That deep, you're not going to have a lot of time to work before the pressure gets to you. Even with the tanks."

"I know."

They maneuver the boat to the most optimal position for the winch, anchor and set up a tether line to keep Booker down by the coffin if he passes out or dies. 

He curses every minute it takes to get set up, every minute Quynh wakes, drowns, wakes and drowns again. Finally, he jumps into the water, grabs the tether cables James lowers down after him. 

The water is cold, almost knocks the breath from him, but he shakes it off, waits for James to signal that he's started the spool for the winch cable, and then starts to swim down into the darkness, one hand on the tether line they had set up with the bigger ROV.

The visibility is not great but also not the worst conditions he's dived under -- absently he remembers diving in the near-darkness off of South Africa to infiltrate a diamond fencing operation, near-paralyzed with the fear of encountering the white sharks that frequent that coastline so heavily -- and eventually the seafloor swirls and then resolves in his vision. 

Booker follows the second tether to the other ROV over, and finally sees Quynh for the first time since he started dreaming of her, 208 years ago. 

He radios back to James. "It's her, confirm."

James acknowledges, and Booker kicks his fins to swim forward for a better look, sees James steer the ROV a bit closer across from him. 

James' voice echoes in his comm, the connection crackly with this much depth between them. "Wrap around the head and foot, attach a secondary tether to the chains. I'm not sure those will hold if we only use that as a tether on its own."

Booker replies in the affirmative, pulls the first tether down to the foot of the coffin, manages to get it secured. He kicks off, swims up to the head of the coffin, and a blast of bubbles hits his mask. He curses. 

James curses in sympathy, encouraging. "Come on, Sebastien. The faster we get these attached, the faster we get her up."

Booker shakes himself, wraps the second tether point around the head of the coffin, and then attaches the smaller tether points to the chains padlocked around the center of the coffin, registers absently that his blood is boiling with fury at the small-minded men who had doomed Quynh to an eternity of this out of lack of understanding. 

A small part of him wishes they weren't long dead, that he could give them to Quynh for her revenge as she sees fit. 

He kicks off again, flashes the "okay" sign at the ROV camera, backing off enough that James should be able to activate the winch. 

The tether lines straighten, start to strain with the tension, and Booker hopes desperately that the iron maiden hasn't rusted and concreted itself into the seafloor, breathes a shout of triumph as it releases and starts to rise in a cloud of sand and debris. James is also calling joyously in his ear, and Booker navigates back to the other ROV, ready to follow it's tether line back to the surface. 

(He hopes Quynh can see her prison is moving, can see the increased light, hopes that it brings her some small measure of comfort.)

He had argued against and won doing any decompression stops on the way up -- for him there is no point, and he doesn't want to leave Quynh under the water any longer than they have to. Dying of the bends is painful, but probably a welcome change to drowning endlessly.

Slowly, the iron maiden rises from the depths, and Booker brings Quynh home.

He surfaces and scrambles back on the boat, kicks his fins off, drops his tanks and spits out the mouthpiece and tears the facemask from his head, runs over to where James is trying to guide the coffin over onto the deck by himself. They both hear a gurgle and muffled thumps, and then more desperate screaming as Quynh comes back alive from her most recent drowning. James swears, pivots the winch controls, while Booker puts all of his weight behind the rope, pulling the coffin over and then guiding as James lowers it to the deck.

Quynh's screams ratchet up in volume, a mismash of languages and desperate cries for Andromache ringing into the air around them. 

Booker drops the rope as soon as the iron maiden touches the deck, slips and scrambles on the wet decking to the head of the coffin, trying to calm Quynh down. "Quynh, Quynh, you're safe, calm down, please calm down."

He can barely see her panicked, terrified eyes through the eye holes of that damned mask, repeats himself over and over in the hopes it will calm her terror. 

James retrieves both ROVs as Booker works as quickly as he can to undo all of the tethers on Quynh's prison, hacking at the rusted chains with a heavy pair of bolt cutters. The center seems rusted shut, and Booker bashes at it with a sledgehammer, calling desperate apologies over Quynh's renewed screaming.

Finally,  _ finally, _ the line of concreted rust holding the two halves of the opening shut gives way, crumbling to the deck, and Quynh practically  _ explodes _ out of the maiden, feral and oh so angry. She has Booker knocked against the side of the boat, head ringing, tries to snatch the sledgehammer from his fingers, until he abruptly regains his equilibrium and fights back, desperate.

"Stop, Quynh,  _ stop!" _ He ducks a wild blow, flings the sledgehammer away when she tries to grab it again, employs every scrap of training he'd had sparring with Andy over the years to keep Quynh focused on him, on avoiding her deadly blows and deflecting the less deadly ones. He switches to French, Genoese, Greek, even tries to mangle his way through Russian, desperate for her to understand.

James hovers on their periphery, desperate to help in his own way but also overwhelmingly out of his depth from a lethality standpoint, and Quynh finally takes the opening to abandon her fight with Booker to go after the most vulnerable one on the boat.

"IT'S SEBASTIEN, YOU'RE SAFE!" Booker screams, desperate to keep Quynh from James, bodily wraps himself around her even as sharp nails and teeth try to gouge and bite. He faintly registers James shouting in the background, twists with Quynh's sinuous attempt to escape, chokes when her teeth clamp down on the meat of his forearm and rip a chunk of flesh away.

James shouts again, and then his shoulder explodes in pain, his mind registers  _ he shot me _ as Quynh slumps in his arms, blood running from her neck.

The shoulder wound heals as James appears at his side, injecting a syringe into the side of Quynh's neck, while Booker swears through the bite wound in his arm knitting back together.

" _ Fuck!" _

James wipes the blood from his arm, uses a clean rag to remove the blood and gore from Quynh's neck, fully healed now. "I'm sorry, it was the only way I could think to get her to stop."

Booker sighs, lifts Quynh into his arms more securely as James drapes a soft fleece blanket over her naked form, tucks it around her carefully. "It's fine."

"It's not, but the situation wasn't great either," James says, nods towards the bridge. "In there, just to get her out of this wind?" He notes the violent shiver that wracks Booker's frame, snags another blanket from the pile to tuck around his shoulders. "You need to get out of that wetsuit, too."

"Yeah." 

They argue briefly over whether James is allowed to stay in the room until James points out that his Vietnamese is much more fluent than Booker's, and settle in to wait for Quynh to awaken. James had pulled out a gigantic plush red bathrobe to clothe her, and Booker had very carefully worked a pair of warm socks onto her feet. She was practically swimming in a pile of blankets by the time they'd finished, but Booker hopes the warmth will help signal to Quynh that she's safe and free, now.

Quynh screams her way back into consciousness about forty minutes later, eyes nearly feral with rage. She stops abruptly, staring at the two men in a cabin with her.

Booker purposefully kept his hands empty of any weapons and clearly in view, his body between Quynh and James. He smiles and speaks softly, starting in French, to see if there is any recognition. " _ Welcome, sister. You are safe now, no one can hurt you." _

Her head tilts, dark eyes almost hypnotizing as they stare at each other.

Booker tries again, this time in English. "Quynh, you are safe now. My name is Sebastien, I was with Andromache. Do you remember the dreams?"

Andy's name garners a dangerous flash of  _ something _ , the barest flicker of emotion in those soul-dark eyes. She speaks, voice hoarse with disuse, in broken French.  _ "Where is Andromache?" _

"She is safe." Booker keeps a wary eye on her, feels James shift slightly at his back. "She will come here, eventually."

Quynh bares her teeth in a horrible rictus of a smile. " _ You do not trust me." _

Booker sighs. "Andromache is mortal now. I do not wish to risk her life."

The smile drops, clear panic rising. _ "Mortal?" _

He nods. "Her injuries no longer heal."

_ "She promised me until the end,"  _ Quynh snarls, fingers flexing, the line of her body stiff with tension.

Booker tenses, and all at once the room explodes into motion. James catapults himself backwards, scrambling for the one window they had left propped, ducks and rolls outside to the deck to get out of the way of any potential violence. 

Quynh launches herself forward, a whirling scythe of teeth and nails and limbs, feral with rage and pain and fear. Booker struggles through blocking and deflections, keeps the door at his back, uses his body to block Quynh from going after James. They fight and fight, body blows and scratches and one particularly painful bite wound to his hand, until suddenly Quynh collapses to her knees like a puppet with its strings cut, sobs choking her breath into uneven hiccups.

Booker stays between her and the doorway, lets the sting of healing wounds fade, keeps his posture guarded but open. " _ It will be alright, Quynh." _

She keens, hunching forward over her knees, fists pounding on the floor.  _ "She promised!" _

"I know. I'm sorry, I know." He pointedly doesn't think about how his betrayal caused all of this, doesn't want to tell her until he's sure James is safe back on land.

Slowly her head rises back up, gaze red-rimmed and barely grasping at sanity, and her teeth bare in fury, rage. " _ You did this _ ," Quynh snarls, the whole of her body a lithe, deadly line. 

(So much for that idea.)

Booker sighs, lets his hands drop, hopes against hope James' handgun is enough to keep Quynh at bay until they reach the shore. "Yes. It is my fault."

Quynh stares him down, dark eyes hypnotic in their rage and pain. She shakes her head, expression crumpling. "Why?"

Booker laughs hopelessly. "I don't think I have an answer to satisfy you."

"You came...you hunted for me. But Andromache…abandoned."

"Andromache bears many guilts in this world, but I do not --" He sighs, breaks off, thinking. "Not abandoned. Just lacking real hope, I think. She searched, every break from the rest of us. I think she hid her searching to avoid pity in the end, from Nicolo and Yusuf." He shrugs. "She never gave up, but to be fair she also didn't have dreams pointing her way."

Quynh sniffles. "You were always sad, in my head. So sad and lonely." Her head tilts. "The new one is...bright. Young."

"Nile."

"Nile," Quynh nods, runs the name over her tongue. Her gaze sharpens. "You wanted a way out."

"I did."

"Because the others…they did not…" She pauses, frustrated. "Why did you not tell them of the dreaming?"

(Andromache was in one of her occasional "humanity deserves the horrors it wreaks on itself" moods when they first met. She was jaded and tired, and had spent 300 years watching Nico and Yusuf's love, letting it swirl and fester while hers drowned at the bottom of the cold dark sea.

He and Andy were more alike than different, at times. Her pain, sadness, jealousy just showed in the periodic trips she had to take, to get away.

They both loved Nicolo and Yusuf. It didn't necessarily mean either of them liked being around them, most days.)

"When I first met Andromache and Nicolo and Yusuf, the world was tearing itself apart. Has been tearing itself apart and never quite healing from the wounds, since." Booker shrugs. "When they first learned I dreamt of your prison, they asked questions, over and over. Yusuf would have me explain in detail, would draw. Nico had maps, and Andromache would just sit and listen as if hearing tales of your suffering endlessly was her penance."

"But they stopped."

"When it became clear my dreams didn't provide new information or helpful information, Nico eventually asked me to stop, I think he intended for Andromache's sake." He sighs, shuddering. "I eventually started lying, claimed the dreams faded. I didn't…Andromache had enough to worry about to deal with my shitty mental state on top of that."

Quynh blinks. "They didn't know?"

"That the dreams continued?" Booker shakes his head. "No. I met them first a few years after my first death, but I was still trying to cling to my family at the time, thought their words of warning were callous and cruel, and I drove them away in my anger and desperation. By the time Jean-Pierre died, it had been nearly a decade. They didn't ask anymore."

Quynh stares at him. "You have been dreaming this for centuries."

"Yes."

"The new one -- Nile, she will continue to dream until we meet."

"Yes."

She shakes her head, a sad smile twisting her face -- it is startlingly beautiful in its simplicity. "You were willing to condemn yourself to a lifetime of nightmares."

He shrugs. "I was a poor substitute for who they really wanted. It was the least I could do."

Her brow furrows. "Substitute?"

Booker laughs hollowly. "I am well aware in my value to the group, in that I have none. I have always been just another body to throw in front of the machine. I trained to be useful in the ways that I could, and spared them the horror of knowing how my nights went."

James huffs a disagreeing noise from behind him. Quynh glances over his shoulder but evidently decides James is no threat, fixing her dark eyes back on his. "This power is not about replacement, or substitute. Nico and Yusuf should know -- they were no replacements for Lykon. Each of us is different and more beautiful because of it." She shakes her head. "Even if they do not see it, I can. You will come to understand your purpose in time." Her gaze flickers back to James. "You...I did not dream of you."

"Unfortunately mortal, I'm afraid." James holsters the handgun at the small of his back, lays a tender hand against Booker's spine where Quynh cannot see. "I was part of Sebastien's plan, before we both came to our senses in a rather unfortunate way." He bows slightly at the waist, speaks to her in lilting Vietnamese.  _ "Welcome back, lady Quynh." _

Her eyes darken and then brighten, begrudgingly pleased to hear some approximation of her native language.  _ "Your Vietnamese is… strange. But welcome." _

James smiles a bit sadly. "Much has changed, I fear."

Quynh hums, fingers the sleeves of the plush bathrobe around her body. "Clothing seems to have improved."

Booker finally lets some of the tension he'd held relax, settles more firmly into the grounding weight of James' hand against his spine. "Very much so." He tilts his head, watches her carefully. "Are you done with your rage, for now? I would like to get us all back to dry land."

"My rage can be quelled for the moment," Quynh allows, glancing around her surroundings with more vested interest. "We will speak later on what you call your betrayal, I think. There is more here I need to understand."

Booker swallows, nods. "If that is what you want."

Her eyebrow raises. "Not everything has to be about what others want." Her eyes glitter darkly, a phantom pain and wound not quite healed over. "If Andromache taught you anything, it should have been that."

He shrugs. "They tried. Not sure it stuck."

Quynh hums again and smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and he registers that she is truly beautiful when she smiles. (It explains quite a bit of Andy's years-decades-centuries of melancholy, if she had that smile in her life and then watched it get locked away, lost to her seemingly forever.) "Well, we can work on that."

James chuckles quietly. "Somehow, I think you and I will get along quite well." He motions towards the controls, watching Quynh carefully. "Do you think you are ready to head to shore?"

She nods slowly, staring out of the bridge windows. "Where are we?"

"Not far from the cliffs of Dover." 

"England, still. I wondered. Some of the men on the boat, they talked of taking me further out, towards France or Germany, to create greater distance." 

Booker sighs. "Small-minded fools." He nods towards one of the bench seats, a canvas bag sitting there. "We weren't sure how comfortable you would be with bathing so soon after being...there. But there are combs and hairbrushes."

"Also more clothing, if you wish. We had to guess at sizing, and you are of course welcome to choose your own when we have a chance," James offers, starting up the motor. "Please take whatever you like."

"I…" Quynh hesitates, glances down at her hands. "I think I am comfortable in this for now, thank you." She does take the offered comb, sits huddled by the window, hands absently tracing the comb through her hair over and over again. 

James steers them back to the dock he had rented out, he and Booker working in tandem to moor the vessel securely, before Booker helps Quynh disembark and set foot on dry land for the first time in five hundred years.

The smile on her face is bittersweet, tinged with the melancholy of missing a love still out of reach, but finally she is safe.


End file.
